


(You Can't) Fake Chemistry

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Chemistry, Detroit Red Wings, Gen, Line Combinations, New Beginnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4330851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank convinces Jeff to let him and Pav play on the same line next season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(You Can't) Fake Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this story was in Friedman's 44 Thoughts where Jeff Blashill is quoted as saying that Zetterberg brought up to him the idea that the younger players would have more responsibility if they weren't playing with Zetterberg and Datsyuk. This is also obviously set before the Brad Richards signing.

“One thing you can’t fake is chemistry.”—Blake Shelton

(You Can’t) Fake Chemistry

“Got any line combinations drawn up yet?” Hank asked Jeff as they sat on either side of the mahogany desk in Jeff’s office at the end of another long strategy session where they had plotted out a practice schedule and travel arrangements for the start of the season. 

“Only preliminary stuff.” Jeff’s mind was still swimming in dates and times, so it was hard for him to jump into the name pool instead. “Ken is still investigating the free agent market, and that would shape my line combinations.” 

“If it’s not finalized—“ Hank’s face suggested that he was bracing himself for an attack or explosion—-“I was wondering if you’d consider putting Pav and me on the same line.” 

There was a sentence that was more of a grenade than a request. No wonder Hank’s expression had been that of a man treading onto a minefield, Jeff thought wryly, because in the Detroit locker room it was definitely an extremely inflammatory issue whether the Euro Twins should play together on a regular basis. In fact, it had taken less than half a month as Mike Babcock’s assistant for him to learn that this bone of contention both sides refused to bury entirely was the biggest source of friction between Mike and the Euro Twins. The Euro Twins, who had a bond so deep that it seemed to exist on an atomic level, wanted to take advantage of their chemistry by playing together as often as possible, while Mike had no desire to weaken the team’s depth by not only placing his two best forwards on the same line but also lessening the impact of whichever one of them was at wing instead of center. 

Jeff still recalled his first initiation into just how tense that topic could be. The glowing watch around Jeff’s wrist had read 3:30 in the morning, and the Wings plane—filled with sleeping players and coaches—was soaring over the part of America often derisively referred to as flyover country. Figuring that he was the only one suffering from insomnia at that particular moment in time and as such surely the lone person on the plane who wasn’t in Dream Land, he had been started awake by a sharp, staccato whisper from Hank to Pav—both of whom had appeared as if they had fallen into a slumber with their heads resting on one another’s shoulders an hour ago—“I just heard Babs snore. He’s definitely asleep now.” 

“That or he pretending.” In a hiss, Pav’s broken English had been even more challenging to decipher. “Maybe he trying trick us.” 

“I could go to the bathroom and check if his eyelids are moving,” Hank had proposed in an undertone. 

“Bad idea.” Jeff had been able to hear Pav click his tongue in negation. “You footsteps wake him up because you clumsy oaf.” 

“Well, I don’t care if he is awake.” Although he had spoken in barely more than a mutter, Hank’s voice was no less fervent than if it had been an impassioned shout. “If he overhears us whispering what we really feel than he can deal with it since he has no problem telling us at full bellow what he thinks.” 

“Still can’t believe he called us into his office to yell at us for not trying hard enough to make line combinations he pulled out of hat work because we want force him play us together.” Pav’s words had been as bitter as a rotten lemon. “As if we ever not work hard just because we not agree with decision he make.” 

“And as if we don’t try our best to make any line we’re put on successful,” Hank had added, still speaking so softly that Jeff’s ears had been strained making them out over the roar of the engines thudding beneath the soles of his shoes. “We have bonds with our current lines, but they’re covalent bonds, which are easy to break, while the bond between us is ionic and so very difficult to split. We can’t fake chemistry.” 

“If I could, teacher not mark all my made-up equations with red X on exams.” Jeff had practically been able to hear the ironic twist to Pav’s mouth as he offered this quip. 

“Don’t joke when I’m serious.” Hank had nudged Pav in the ribs. “Babs has been in hockey long enough that he should know the one thing players can’t fake is chemistry.” 

“He know.” Pav had exhaled in a gust that Jeff could hear in the row behind. “He just forget because he frustrated we not producing like we should. He blame us for not trying like we blame him for line combinations as random as dice roll with no chemistry.” 

“This will all blow over once we break out of our slumps.” Hank’s hair had rustled against his seat cushion as he had nodded. “That’s why we could never let the media or our teammates get wind of this. The media would create whispers of a perceived rift—which is how real rifts can begin—and other players might think it was okay to rebel if they believed that we were. A divided locker room is a thousand times worse than any garbage lines Babs can vomit onto a game-sheet.” 

“I not tell if you not.” Pav’s murmur had been barely audible over the air conditioning that had just whirred into action above Jeff’s head. “If we no tell, it like we never spoke. Like how if tree fall in forest and nobody around to hear, no sound made.” 

It had been that moment, Jeff concluded as he ripped himself out of the memory that had ensnared him like a spiderweb, when he had perhaps seen the Euro Twins as humans—subject to the same tempers, trials, and tribulations as all other mere mortals—but that knowledge of their frailty had only made them appear stronger and nobler in Jeff’s eyes, because they were willing to sacrifice their egos, their very beings, for the good of their team. 

“I’ll consider it,” replied Jeff, weighing each syllable as it left his lips and watching the gentle gusts sailing through the open office window ripple through the pages of his calendar like invisible fingers flipping through his schedule. He trusted implicitly that Hank and Pav would work hard to make any line he put them on successful and not publicly question his choices since that deferential behavior hadn’t just been a sign of their respect for Mike Babcock. It was a gold standard of professionalism they held themselves to—not engaging in any activity that might be construed as undermining the authority of their coach. 

As if that tiny concession were all it took for Hank to hope for victory, he pressed, “Pav and I have strong chemistry, Blash. We always have and always will. If we played on the same line, we’d be more productive.” 

“What about everyone else?” Jeff raised an eyebrow, convinced that Hank was making the issue too simple. “You know there was a reason Babs didn’t play you two together, Z.” 

“Sure.” Hank’s jaw clenching as if it were a clam shell implied he found Babcock’s logic far from persuasive. “He thought we had to carry the kids around like backpacks.” 

“You didn’t agree,” remarked Jeff, noting inwardly that it didn’t require a super sleuth of the caliber of Sherlock Holmes to arrive at that incisive conclusion. 

“The kids would have to take more responsibility for how the team does every night if they weren’t on a line with Pav and me, feeling that they had to always defer to us.” Hank paused and then went on, “Not to sound stuck in the past, but that’s how it worked for Pav and me. Playing together we figured out what we needed to do to lead the Wings when guys like Yzerman and Shanahan retired, and we just gradually transitioned into that leadership role when we were in charge of carrying our own line.” 

“You believe that Gus and Tats are ready for that responsibility, Z?” Jeff’s fingers drummed a pensive tattoo against the wood of his desk. 

“I do.” Hank took a deep breath and sat as straight as a poker in his chair. “Now is the time for the transition when Pav and I are still here to provide support. At this point, the longer we wait to give Gus and Tats any real responsibility, the harder it will be for them to fill the roles we need them to down the road, Blash.” 

“If we followed your plan, we’d need a second line center for Gus and Tats.” The beat Jeff’s fingers were producing intensified. 

“Weiss or Sheahan could do the job.” Hank’s rapid response made it clear that he had devised an answer in advance for any potential question Jeff could pose. “Or Ken might be able to get someone on the free agent market for you. If you asked him to do that, he’d try, you know. Babs just never asked Ken to do that because he wanted Pav and me centering separate lines as much as possible.” 

Figuring that it was time to make sure that Gus and Tats could keep the Winged Wheel spinning after Pav and Hank were gone and that the Euro Twins might stay healthier throughout the season if they were playing together, Jeff said, “I’ll speak to Ken about making a move so that you and Pav can play on the same line.” 

“Thank you.” Hank’s face cracked into a broad beam. “That’d make Pav and me very happy.”


End file.
